Brothers in the Desert
by Hitomi Zotz
Summary: The story of Butch Cavendish and Latham Cole and how they became the villains they did. Set in the film world, this is the gritty origins of brothers at odds with their own beliefs and a society that preaches good but practises evil. One brother is for bloody vengeance and the other determined to forge a new life and see justice in the world. Warning for violent content.
1. Prologue- Bloody Greed

_The tale of how Latham Cole and Butch Cavendish became the villains they were in The Lone Ranger. I made the brothers based on Latham stating to John Reid that that a man cannot choose his brother and that he and Butch were brothers in the desert. I don't know how literally that was meant to be taken but I decided to go with it. So here is a fic about their origins as brothers raised and molded by the Wild West.  
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Sometimes a man is just evil, there's no reason to it, no sense, and no rhyme. Some say it's the devil, others make vague references to evil spirits but sometimes the evil is just there, a tiny spark in the soul waiting to flourish. Sometimes a man is shaped into evil too; evil deeds do make an evil soul, corruption is an easy thing, it's repentance that comes with difficulty.

Things were meant to be changing for the better here, this was the land of opportunity and freedom, yes that was clear enough, what was ambiguous was who the opportunity and freedom were for. It seemed that only those who fought and killed for what they wanted actually got it. Well they had been warned to be wary of savages and bandits, everyone had, but not of their own neighbours. Wasn't one supposed to love thy neighbour?

Bartholomew Cole pulled himself from his dark thoughts and back to the grim reality of the situation. Daddy had gone slow and mamma was going even slower. Latham was conscious again, whimpering, not that it mattered; no one would hear the screams save the occupants of the house. If only Bartholomew had been faster, stronger or more alert, well he was certainly alert now; the cool sting in his right shoulder kept him that way.

Their dad hadn't been a bad sort, a drunk with a big mouth just, a big, insulting mouth that had offended and bragged to the wrong people at last. The ringleader, a tall, redhead called Butch Masterton who was making their mother cry, had beat him in vengeance for tricks at a card game in the tavern and jibes at his manhood and lack of a spouse. Bartholomew thought scornfully that such things should have been settled at the tavern, why had words such power? Why had this man, a neighbour and a drinking friend of his father's, turned to murder and what, in Bartholomew's opinion, was outright torture? The other pair, brothers Ross and Frank Turner, had been motivated by greed, dad had flashed a silver watch and risked some rare looking gold coins on the table and they were desperately eager to find out where he hid the rest, convinced that he had treasure in his house. Well dad was a fool and a boastful liar when drinking; man would have been better cutting his own tongue out.

Ross, the elder of the brothers, was sweating hard and looking Bartholomew's way nervously. He had shot dad in the end, claimed it was meant to be a warning shot when Butch turned on him in outrage. Unable to find out the treasure from dad Butch had turned his attentions to ma. Ross had protested a couple of times, nice of him to find his ranger's morals at last, but then he had gone silent. Bartholomew could just make out the sparkle of his tarnished star, almost hidden beneath his tan jacket.

Frank tipped his black hat up and looked Bartholomew's way too. "Let's find out if the boys know," he suggested.

Ross paled at the suggestion and shook his head. "They probably don't," he said hastily, "he probably wouldn't have told them."

Frank gave Ross a wilting brown stare and said coldly, "there's no going back now Ross, so we may as well finish this." He took out his knife, it was custom made, a large, serrated blade with an ivory handle, Frank liked to take it out now and again to impress the women of town, but his preference was scalping the coats off animals with it. Bartholomew eyed the blade emptily and made a vow to make Frank feel that blade deep in his gut.

Ross scratched his right ear distractedly before looking to Latham, the boy, no, he shook his head, couldn't see him as a boy, they weren't so young, wasn't Bart almost... 'No don't think of him as Bart,' Ross scorned himself, 'he's just a man in your way, they both are.' He swallowed hard, taking a reluctant step in Latham's direction as Frank moved to Bartholomew.

The brothers were tied up to chairs side by side and had been for an hour, Latham had been unconscious for most of it, knocked out by the blow Frank had dealt him, he had missed their father's death knells and the constant howls, now sobs, of their mother. Frank and Ross had searched the house for thirty of those minutes but to no avail, now Ross worried someone, despite how late it was, would notice the extra horses outside the house, or hear a suspicious sound and investigate.

Frank moved quickly, jamming the tip of his knife up Bartholomew's right nostril causing a howl of pain and shock to emit from the boy. Frank gave a yellow toothed grin before pulling the blade back out, drawing a swift flow of crimson with it. "Now you know I ain't messing," he said firmly as he wiped the blade clean on Bartholomew's leg. "Where does your daddy hide his gold?"

Bartholomew smiled back at the older man, smiled until his teeth hurt and Frank was unnerved enough to punch him hard in the face. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth but he did not care, he was going to die anyway so he may as well go out pissing these bastards off.

"You fools there is no gold!" Latham cried out indignantly. His head was pounding, bleeding from the front left side of his brow; he was dizzy and nauseous but conscious enough to grasp his situation once more. Futile was the word but the fifteen-year-old did not believe in futile, he believed in negotiation. "Those coins were all he had! He collected them, one from England, and one from a Chinaman!"

Ross punched him the gut in frustration, it could not be true otherwise it would mean... He glanced behind him at the bloodied corpse and swallowed hard. Everything had been in vain.

Butch let out a laugh drawing all eyes back to him. He fastened up his trousers and lifted his pistol from the table, pointing it carelessly at their mother's head. "Sure there's no gold boys?" he queried. His merciless blue eyes fell on Bartholomew who suppressed a shudder, everyone about town was afraid of Butch and he was no exception, especially not now.

Mrs. Cole moved fast, her right leg kicked up slamming her boot hard between Butch's thighs. He dropped down with a howl of pain, giving her the chance to roll away from him and his pistol. Butch fired anyway with a curse and the bullet struck the wood harmlessly. Mrs. Cole got to her feet and started running, going for her husband's pistol. Frank shot at her and his bullet shattered through the lantern sitting on a window ledge. The tattered curtains caught aflame instantly filling the room with glorious, burning amber light.

Everything was happening at once; all of the men were yelling and firing shots. Mrs. Cole reached the gun, not even pausing as one of Ross' bullets grazed her left arm. She took aim and fired, catching Frank in the right arm and causing him to let on an expletive. The fire was spreading now, Ross was panicking and Butch was almost blinded with rage. BANG! The gun clattered uselessly to the floor as blood soaked Mrs. Cole's hand as Butch's bullet tore straight through it. He pounced on her like the madman he was, gripping her low by the chin and turning her head to face Bartholomew. "Watch," he said with a smile.

Her bruised eyes looked at her son with a teary eyed guilt, illuminated until they glowed a vibrant turquoise in the firelight. She had such beautiful, mesmerising eyes. It chilled Bartholomew to his core to see them looking at him now so helpless and frightened.

BANG! The bullet exploded through her skull this time and Bartholomew watched numbly as her bright, ocean blue and jade green eyes went wide and then suddenly glassy as blood streaked down her brow. Butch released her to fall clumsily on the floor before raising the pistol at Bartholomew.

There was a crackle from above and Frank cried out a warning before diving into Butch just as a flaming rafter came down. Bartholomew closed his eyes momentarily to avoid them been singed by sparks. The heat was close now, burning his skin as the smoke began to choke him.

Latham took a chance as Ross fled in the chaos. The whole house was rotted and burning fast, how could anyone have been stupid enough to think their father was rich when he lived in such sordid conditions? He shifted his chair until the flames were burning at his ropes. He could hear groans through the flames and smoke, they did not have much time. At last his hands snapped free as they began to burn and he leaped up from his chair before it too went up in smoke. He grabbed a broken bit of burning wood and ran to his younger brother's aid. Bartholomew was fighting against the smoke and coughing violently. "We have to run Bartholomew," he shouted as he burned at the ropes, "do you hear me? We have to run!"

Bartholomew gave the spot where Butch had stood one final look before Latham yanked him up and towards a window. The doorway was up in flames, and only one window remained clear. "Jump Bart!" Latham urged before he flung himself awkwardly at the glass, shielding himself with his arms. He flew through it head first, causing a tremendous crash as the glass went everywhere in a shower of golden shards that turned black as they hit the ground. He landed hard on the dry wild grass and dirt, and lay there winded and in a pain for a moment.

Bartholomew followed with more grace, his journey less painful thanks to the lack of glass. He landed with a subdued grunt of pain before standing upright and dusting himself down. There were two horses whinnying and rearing in sheer terror. He considered going to them when he saw two silhouettes do the same. They supported each other, the short one limping slightly, halting to give the upright form a chance to calm one steed. The wounded man mounted first, turning his steed and hurrying off into the night. The second moved close in his shadow. They had been quick, too quick.

He watched them go and immediately vowed a bloody revenge. Latham saw them ride out too and thought briefly of justice as he grabbed his brother's right arm, pulling him hard. "We have to leave," he hissed sharply.

"What?" Bartholomew turned to him with a cold look. His eyes still stung from the smoke but his vision was clear as he took in his older brother. Bartholomew was the taller on the two, lanky and still growing, but Latham was the superior, not just in age but sense too. The fifteen-year-old was showing promise in terms of intelligence and reason, rumour was already going around that he would be a city lawyer one day but Bartholomew, born with a cleft lip he had been singled out from an early age as different, even his brother's protection could not stop him from growing up bullied and teased. It had given Bart a crueller streak and a shorter temper.

"Ross is a ranger," Latham reminded his sibling sternly, "no one is going to believe that he, Frank and Butch did this and Frank is smart, he will have the rumours started before we can stop them."

"What rumours?" Bartholomew queried dumbly as he pulled his arm free in one swift, sharp gesture.

Latham glanced back at the flaming house, they could only have a few minutes before someone noticed the smoke, Hell chances were Frank was rounding up the men now talking of a strange fire, wouldn't that look good, Frank the would be hero who noticed the fire tragically too late. "That we did this," Latham answered coldly.

"What?!" Bartholomew shrieked in outrage as his eyes blazed with fury. He turned on his brother with a quiver, clenching his fists tightly in an attempt to subdue his growing anger. He wanted sorely then to punch Latham for even thinking such a thing never mind saying it aloud. "We couldn't! No one would think that!"

Latham met his brother's wild stare and nodded solemnly. He thought privately that the townspeople might not be so quick to think such a wicked deed of him but with enough persuasion from Butch, Frank and Ross they might dare to think poor Bartholomew capable of it. Oh it would be an accident they would whisper, a horrible accident but the boy's fault no less. Latham would have a choice, side with the real murderers and save his own reputation and future or sink with his brother. "We have to get out of town," he said firmly, vowing then and there that no matter what he would always side with Bartholomew.

"No," Bartholomew protested with an angry shake of his head, "no way in Hell will I let people think that we did this and let them three carry on like nothing happened."

Latham tensed and cocked his head slightly to the left. He thought he could hear the heavy beats of hooves but it was hard to tell over the roar of the fire. "Now Bartholomew," he urged sternly, "before it's too late. It has happened now, there's nothing else for it. I promise that it won't be forgotten, justice will be dealt."

"No," Bartholomew spat onto the ground and rubbed a streak of blood from his chin, only now realising that his right nostril was still bleeding. "Vengeance, vengeance will be dealt."

Latham frowned and thought to himself quietly that Bartholomew would have to change if they were to survive.


	2. Chapter 1- Bountiful Earnings

Ten years, sometimes it seemed like it had been longer and sometimes less. To Latham it was always too long, too long on the road, too long on the outskirts and too long dancing between the law never quite sure what side to be on. For Bartholomew it seemed just right, ten years to hone and develop their skills, to earn coin and a reputation, to hunt and get ever closer to the one thing that always stayed in his mind- revenge. The decade had softened Latham's desire for it, he agreed that Butch, Frank and Ross should be brought to justice but he would not push for it, he felt it was better to move on than to dwell in the past. For Bartholomew however his desire for revenge had just burned brighter and brighter over the years to the point of almost consuming him.

It had taken a while for the brothers to find something to stick with, years of moving uneasily from town to town with rumours always close behind and forcing them on. Weeks and months of odd jobs here and there, even begging on occasion, all just for some scraps of food. It had taken Bartholomew just a year and a half to tire of it, and so at fourteen and almost a half he had committed his first big crime and stolen a horse so that he and Latham could at least avoid walking. Naturally that had involved another swift departure from a village and more regular camping in the desert than initially planned.

Latham was not sure when they had stopped being hunted or stopped fearing the hunt at least, he supposed it was halfway into their exile when he turned nineteen and was finally accepted as a man in the villages, camps and towns they wandered through. Then they were offered better jobs, and as the coin came in so did the liquor and the whores and the realisation that they were adults now and adults shouldn't fear. Latham supposed Frank and the others had given up the chase long before that anyway, the boys were no real threat, they had fled and made the story of their guilt seem all the more plausible.

Three months after that, Bartholomew grew restless and talked of turning the hunt around and make themselves the hunters. Latham had protested against it, grumbled of meeting a lynching mob if they ever returned to their former home, and argued that they were a pair dealing with a trio, one of whom had the rangers to support him. Bartholomew wasn't satisfied though and despite Latham's insistence that it was foolish to journey back when they should continue on Latham found himself allowing his brother to guide them back.

It took another year before they neared their home, the town of Pambeno, stopping at a nearby settlement built by the shallow river and the wild grass so that cattle grazed and raised out there could be guarded. There they learned the truth from one bored farmer's wife that Butch, Frank and Ross were all gone from town. Just six months prior to the brothers' arrival Butch and Frank had gotten in a scuffle with a stranger in town, over a woman, coin or simple disliking, no one was sure, but a couple of shots were fired and the stranger was killed. Butch, ill liked by the town, had been forced to flee knowing he would likely be strung for the murder. Frank, who some said was the real murderer, had fled with him, taking his stupidly loyal brother with him. Of course the remaining three rangers had gone after them, in part to see justice done and in part to get Ross back, but Butch was clever and after a couple of weeks the rangers had returned in failure.

Bartholomew, furious, had wanted to go into Pambeno and learn more, but then a cattle owner had spied his cleft lip, asked questions and made accusations and the brothers, still remembered for their parents' murders, were forced to flee.

It was after this that Bartholomew had become obsessed with tracking Butch and the others. Latham had tried to reason with him, pointing out that they had no leads and knew nothing about tracking anyone. He supposed this was when their current career path had begun. Needing experience, coin and a job that would involve travelling they had gone into bounty hunting. It wasn't always legal and sometimes the effort and time put into the chase was worth far more than the coin given for capture but after years of trying at it, the boys had finally developed a skill for it.

Now, at twenty-five and twenty-three, they had acquired enough coin to afford rooms in towns rather than being forced to lie under the stars, and they could eat and drink comfortably enough. Of course their horses were still stolen, they never saved enough for good horses, but, as Bartholomew grumbled, they were never able to take truly good horses either. Of course it mattered little to Latham, they were never hired for difficult bounties anyway, they had no wide spreading reputation, they looked too young to handle the hardened outlaws and in some cases better men took the bounties first.

Four years of chasing bounties and both brothers were finally tiring of the life, Latham wanted more, he wanted to settle in a town and prosper in it, but Bartholomew just wanted revenge. Latham could see how it was starting to twist his brother, the frustration ate at him and guilt plagued him, he would not let himself feel any happiness while their parents' murderers were still out there and at times he even seemed irked to see others carefree and happy.

Sundown, so many thought blood in the sky was an ill omen but Bartholomew Cavendish thought it was beautiful in its way, he liked knowing that even the sun for all its glory could bleed and die, suffering the curse of mortality on a daily basis. He turned his head up to the clear sky and grinned, it was going to be a dry evening, perfect for sleeping out in if the quiet looking settlement of Sol Star could not welcome them.

Latham was relieved to see the collection of shadows up ahead- a tight grouping of wooden buildings too small to be a town but verging on it. There was an arched wooden sign to welcome visitors and, as far as he could tell, no guards to warn any off. It was crooked, the nails rusted and the red paint which greeted them was streaked down the wooden board, chipped in places and more brown than red in others. The lights were faint, hard to make out against the sun's final burst of fiery amber light, but Latham knew they were there promising shelter, food and company.

The horses moved at a slow trot, tired from journeying for most of the day as Bartholomew had insisted on chasing rumours yet again. Butch Masterton and the Turner Brothers still kept company, a small gang of petty thieves now, they had kept their killing nature up and word was spreading of two men they had shot over a card game gone wrong. Bartholomew had known who they were from the descriptions- a tall, muscular redhead in his forties accompanied by two men thought to be brothers, one with brown curly hair, the other short, dirty fair hair, both swarthy skinned, the brown haired man with a nose out of joint. Latham had insisted it was unlikely to be the same three, and scolded his brother for still obsessing but then the closer they got to the town where it had all gone wrong, San Rosa, the more detailed the rumours became and then finally Butch's name was mentioned. Even Latham could not dispute it anymore, the trio had raised their ugly heads again and Bartholomew was determined not to let them get away.

If the twenty-three-year-old could have ridden through the nights and days without sleep he would have, he was convinced Butch and the others would gain ground while they slept but Latham had become firm on the matter, insisting that he and the horses needed regular food and rest even if Bartholomew did not.

They found the village calm with only a few locals walking about the dusty ground that had almost been worn into paths. Two hitched horses outside the local tavern hinted at other travellers but it was hard to be certain. Sol Star was an unorganised collection of timber buildings starting to struggle for order, at the entry there were stables, a pen for the horses, and a chicken coop. Towards the back, on the outskirts, was the small collection of cattle, kept near a well, from which their troughs were filled. It was a slow village, set out in the more deserted plains; it was born out of a desire for independence rather than sensible positioning. Though the few townspeople he could see looked ordinary, Latham could tell they were a tough people, hardened by living in a place where survival did not come easy. Part of him admired them for it while another part of him had to wonder why they had chosen such difficult living when they could have easier.

Bartholomew eyed one of the buildings to the right curiously, along its left side posters had been pinned up on the wooden wall, still in the dry air, some of them were faded from wear, and others were smudged by rain. They were WANTED posters- some for arrests, and some for private bounties. Bartholomew dismounted from his bay gelding, taking the reins lightly in one hand and pulling the horse towards the posters.

Latham frowned as he dismounted too, glancing to the stables in weary desperation. Trust Bart to think of a job before rest, although Latham had to admit some of the bounties offered were tempting. He followed after his brother to study the small collection of inked illustrations and bold font. There were eight in total, seven men and one young woman, three of the men shared connections, all marked as members of the 'Cravendale Gang' whilst another was a lone murderer and the other three were petty thieves who were unconnected to anyone. The woman was listed as a MURDERER; Latham stepped closer to her poster, surprised to think that a young woman could be so violent. He knew it was foolish not to think the opposing sex capable of crime, she was not the first woman he had heard of wanted by the law, and not even the first female he had seen on a bounty poster, but she was the first he had seen accused of murder. The poster read: 'Isabella McConkley, Wanted Alive: For the Murder of Her Sister, Bounty Set: $200'.

Bartholomew frowned at the posters, unimpressed by the targets and their bounties, the only one with a decent value was John Cravendale, the leader of the Cravendale Gang naturally, he was wanted alive to answer for several murders, robberies, cattle rustling and horse theft with his bounty set at an impressive $350.

"We should make enquiries about these after we get the horses stabled," Latham suggested. The woman on the poster, Isabella McConkley, had large, ovular eyes, freckles on her nose and a long, dark plait, her expression was inked as severe and yet she seemed too young and ordinary looking for her crime. Latham thought that she would be an easy bounty to pursue. He noted that a further line near the bottom of her poster mentioned her bounty was exclusive to Sol Star, meaning her crime was too. 'Hard to think a woman murdered her sister in such a quiet place,' he thought scornfully as he looked about, 'but then they have gallows so they must have crime.'

The gallows sat near the centre of the village, the rope still in the wind, the wooden structure could almost be ignored, half lost in the shade of other buildings, it only had one noose, making Latham think that the hangings were rare. Behind the gallows was the local jail, on its oak porch a large dog dozed by the door, its ear twitching now and again.

Bartholomew loathed the tranquillity of the village; peace and quiet made him restless and led to him thinking too much. Butch need action and distraction, otherwise all he thought of was his ma's skull being shot through in front of him and his da's hellish screams before Ross killed him.

"Come on," Latham urged impatiently, "it's getting dark."

They headed back to the stables, where Latham did the talking, Bartholomew could be charismatic when he wanted but other times he was sullen, caught up in his frustration and bitterness and it showed. Latham was and always had been the charmer, Bartholomew had the wit to know what people wanted to hear but more often than not he caught their eyes falling upon his lip and he grew angry. The twenty-three-year-old was getting better though, learning to hold his tongue rather than express the obscenities that came to his mind, but silence could be as damning as insults sometimes.

Latham negotiated quarters and food for their horses and made casual enquiries about where to stay and get some decent food. The stable owner politely directed them to the only inn in the settlement, Bailey's, which also acted as the local tavern and served food to those who had the coin for it, but not until morning as it was too late for dinner now. He murmured about plans for another inn and talked briefly about the village's desires and attempts to expand before lamenting that they did not have enough business. Latham thought privately that people needed to be brought to a settlement on a regular basis for it to make any profit.

The sun had finally sunk by the time they headed towards the inn, it sat to the left, two stories high and sandwiched between a grocer's and the doctor's. All the lights were on and as they neared the building they could hear the merry keys of a slightly out of tune piano being played, it was enough to lighten Latham's spirits as he pushed open the saloon doors and led the way in. It was small inside with ten round tables designed to sit no more than four though a couple currently had as many as eight crowded round playing card games. The bar had just two men standing by it, one with the glistening silver star in a circle at his breast, half-concealed by his coat. Latham suspected the town was too small to have many lawmen and guessed that the man was either the sheriff or the deputy.

A few suspicious eyes flickered up to the young men but it was not long before they decided the youths did not pose a threat and turned their attention elsewhere. When they reached the bar, the sheriff turned to them as the barman hastened to serve them. "Good evening," Latham greeted him politely, "two whiskeys please."

The barman eyed them over briefly, surmising that although young they looked old enough to drink and more importantly, like they could afford it. "Coming up," he said brightly before hurrying to fetch their drinks. As far as he was concerned newcomers were always good news, it mean fresh money and the possibility of them spreading the word about Sol Star and bringing more money to the place.

The man Latham thought to be a sheriff or deputy scrutinised them with more caution, not so certain that any stranger was a good stranger. He was a fine, tall and handsome man, somewhere in his early forties with a thick crop of well groomed, short, golden blonde hair, smooth, fair skin, the hint of a moustache and vibrant cerulean eyes, completing his classically handsome look. Though he wore a dark grey, wide brimmed hat, its centre dented slightly and its rim curved up at either side, a long, tan coat, a dark grey waistcoat with a plain, white shirt underneath, and long, black trousers that went into spurred black boots there was something about him that did not fit with the wild local look. The man seemed too neat and proper to be a tough sheriff or another gritty member of the village. As Latham took him in he felt a bud of envy grow within him, the man was confident and appealing, he looked smart and bold, he was a businessman, Latham could tell immediately, out of place for sure but a businessman nonetheless.

"Welcome to the sleepy town of Sol Star gentleman," the man greeted in a welcoming voice that immediately set Bartholomew on edge. He stood to the right of Bartholomew, his back to the bar and his elbows up against it. Latham sensed a man tough but fair, one happy to greet newcomers but sensible enough to be suspicious of them but Bartholomew regarded him swiftly as a nosy asshole whose greeting was false, sardonic even. The younger brother could see the blue eyes dancing over them trying to guess at their purpose, and suspected that the man might tolerate strangers but he certainly did not want them. "I'm Sheriff Nathan Coburn," he introduced himself with a small smile.

"Good evening," Latham retorted with his own smile as the barman returned with two small glasses of whiskey, "I am Latham Cavendish and this is my brother Bartholomew," he introduced with a small nod at Bartholomew.

Bartholomew loathed the fake name, he considered it a betrayal of their parents and all but an admission of their guilt, how many innocent people had alibis after all? Latham had wanted to change their first names too but Bartholomew had refused, they had been travelling without pursuers for years now, the people of Pambeno had moved on and Butch and his lackeys had either forgotten them or been too busy with other crimes to concern themselves with the brothers.

"And what brings you two to our quiet town? Business I hope?" Sheriff Coburn queried lightly with a short laugh.

His attitude made Bartholomew dislike him all the more, he was trying too hard to seem friendly all while trying to make their affairs his. Did he really need to know why they were here? They had only just entered the inn, they hardly seemed threatening. He supposed grudgingly that the man wouldn't be much of a sheriff if he didn't take the time to learn something about the people passing through his town but something about the way he went about it irritated Bartholomew.

"We were passing through," Latham explained, "and hoping for a place to stay."

"And we're bounty hunters," Bartholomew spoke up, flashing a yellow toothed smile at the sheriff as he did, "and your settlement, despite being so small, seems to have a lot of those."

"Bounty hunters?" the sheriff echoed, either ignoring or missing Bartholomew's subtle dig.

"That's what I said," Bartholomew retorted before turning from the man back to the bar. He seized his whiskey at last, shooting it back with ease.

Latham withheld his disapproval at Bartholomew's hasty downing of his drink and instead looked at the sheriff with another smile. "We would be happy to take on some of your bounties for you," he offered.

The sheriff leaned back against the bar and looked thoughtful for a moment. Latham took the opportunity to sip at his whiskey whilst Bartholomew signalled the barman for another. "Just tell us who's closest," Bartholomew suggested, "we need coin but our time is limited."

"Well that would be the Cravendale Gang then," the sheriff answered calmly. "The others skipped town a couple of months ago, they're either in the next town and their problem now or dead in the desert, I just keep the posters in case someone sees them on the road. The gang though, we only have three warrants to serve but there are at least eight of them as of two weeks ago."

"Do we get a bonus for the others?" Bartholomew queried casually before downing his second whiskey as Latham finished his first.

"If I say yes that would just make you more determined," Sheriff Coburn commented with a look of amusement and a slow shake of his head. "There are only two of you and John Cravendale's gang are as bloodthirsty and ruthless as any other, they raid travellers on the road, and that includes traders for us and they don't often leave survivors. It's bad for business as you can imagine and has slowed things up here. If they were an easy target I'd round up a posse of disgruntled traders and go after them myself."

"Fewer numbers would be more subtle," Latham commented.

"Well maybe, look if you boys say you are bounty hunters then I'm not going to question it and I'm sure you know your business well but I'm not going to encourage you to go after this gang either. If you want to try it then I'll tell you what I can."

"Well all your other bounties have skipped town," Bartholomew grumbled.

"So I hope," Coburn answered with another grin, unfazed by the younger man's growing hostility, "but I can't know for sure, I just haven't seen 'em lately and no one else has reported them. I suppose though they might have seen men and simply not know them for criminals, from a distance most men look the same."

"But not women," Latham added morosely. Isabella had sounded like a much easier target than John Cravendale and though her bounty was lower it would have still been a decent sum to accept and ride off with when all was said and done.

"Women?" Coburn echoed. His vibrant blue gaze darkened and he let out a heavy sigh. "Isabella McConkley, I pray the desert took her, can't imagine her conscience would let her ride on to another town and act like nothing had happened." He took off his hat with his right hand and pressed against his chest gently. "Killed her own sister, a terrible thing in any family, but I feel an extra sorrow because it was mine. She's my own sister's daughter, hard to want her dead but even harder to want her found. I truly don't know if I could arrest her and then hang her, and hang her I would have to, but after justice is served of course, a trial is the least I could afford her." He sighed again before placing his hat back on his head and cocking it slightly to the left. "You're right though Mr. Cavendish, a lone woman on horseback in the desert is something someone would notice, and no one has seen that. She fled three months ago, the eve of the murder, rode out on her late father's horse, fine animal that was too, a big, black stallion, fast and strong, one of the best, called him Shadow.

Anyway, you boys came here for some rest, I'm sure you've been on the road long enough so enjoy your drinks and get some sleep." He stood upright at last, turned around and nodded to the barman. "Bailey here will put you up for cheap. If you really want to hunt the Cravendale Gang we can talk more tomorrow about it."

"Thank you Mr. Coburn," Latham said sincerely.

"You're welcome," came the warm reply before the sheriff walked towards the doors.


End file.
